


Five times seen and once spied on

by drcalvin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Movie and Brick canon mixed in a blender, No graphic sex, Voyeurism, giftfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times someone stumbled upon Valjean and Javert's relationship - and once they stayed to spy on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times seen and once spied on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/gifts).



**1.**

Sister Simplice prayed. For the poor soul that had passed on in her care, for the Mayor caught in old threads of sin and crime. The past full of dirty cobwebs hafting eternally to his repentant soul. She prayed for the little child held by strange hands, prayed that the Virgin Mother would look kindly upon the unfortunate girl. She prayed for the town, which had so quickly flourished beneath this good shepherd and now milled around in abandoned confusion. Last of all, she sent a prayer to the Holy Michael, that he might lead the Inspector onto the right path – for though he was a man of law, Sister Simplice though him floundering in the darkness. She hoped that he would be forgiven the harsh words he had thrown at a dying woman and know of the greater Law from above.

She did not pray for either him, or the Mayor, to find and forgive each other. That was a matter of the heart, which no saints in the world could assist with.

* * *

**2.**

The gossip in the station had it that Inspector Javert had begun his career as a jailer down south. It was a past riddled with uncertainties, for his dialect could not be quite determined – mostly it was Parisian, these days, with a southern pitch to certain vowels. Sprinkled in equal means throughout his speech was bits of sailors' slang, soldiers' curses and northerly sayings. It was determined that he had read his way to at least some of his diction, for the accent slipped down into something undetermined (though it was clearly a downward slip, and nothing else) when he was weary. Further, he had an amazing ear for the thieves' language, which all interested parties considered the main proof of his early career. 

There was then further the business of his posting up north; some coastal city, the most street-bread and untravelled insisted. Not quite, thought those who had on occasion consulted a map, even if the town still carried a maritime byname. His superiors, who certainly knew, kept mum about it all for their own reasons. 

The easiest, and thus least liked by the inveterate gossips, solution would have been to ask the man himself. Though he was often strict and always hellishly stubborn, it was not at all impossible to catch him in a good mood; especially, as one enterprising informant figured out, when his tobacco store had received a fresh shipment and half the street had the scent of fine cigars and good snuff. However, whatever opinion the officers of the police held of Javert and whatever curiosity they felt over his odd ways and strange jumble of knowledge – and it was true that Javert knew about all manner of things beyond the law, which he could recite forwards and backwards through the book. He had at times revealed an unusual insight in everything from the making of beads and various types of lace-making, to the layout and history of Parisian convents; further, he had most of the main travelling routes through France memorized and possessed a nigh unbeatable memory when it came to knowledge of old crimes, in particular those involving violence against magistrates, clergy, policemen or other figures of authority. 

In short, Inspector Javert knew a great many things, and the same officers and police spies who were happy to ask him for advice, were equally happy to whisper behind his back about the source of this eclectic knowledge. What they were most definitely unhappy to do, was to ask him directly about his past – not in the least because the few souls who have dared to approach him about that, had been most definitely snubbed. One man, in particular, had a cautionary tale of hair-raising proportions. For his impudence, he had been put on three full weeks of the earliest to latest shift, back to back. This meant beginning his work two hours before midnight, see the bakeries open and the morning crowds begin, and then, while his fellows went home for a day of good sleep, begin his second shift. 

What had he dared ask about then? Merely made conversation on whether if it was true that the Inspector was a widower, and if perhaps he had a daughter in the convent that he would pass by so often.

This account, together with another few hints, was generally taken to mean that the Inspector had been betrothed to a Madame Madeleine, and that the lady had been involved in a scandal with the magistrate at his previous posting. Out of respect for the Inspector, and a wish to protect their sleeping hours, the men did not mention this unlucky occurrence where he might overhear.

* * *

**3.**

Combeferre suspected foul play from the beginning. He was usually a jovial, friendly person, but the sight of the uniformed old man and the almost too well-timed sniper attack... It aroused his suspicions. At first, he thought the man spy. Then he noticed, even if Enjolras was too swallowed by battle-fervour to do the same, how the stranger stared at the policeman they had captured, how he grew tense and distracted at the sight of him. Then, he thought the stranger's business might not completely be about the barricade. When the man requested to be handed the prisoner and the wish was acquiesced, he worried even more. It would be too easy to throw the problem to another, to wash their hands clean of this sin and deliver the spy to – yes, to what? To a fair revenge long awaited? To a slow death neither earned nor owed? Combeferre did not know, and he was hesitant to accept his share in an execution turned murder without the certainty that nothing improper was taking place.

From what he spied, what took place was neither proper nor could correctly be termed execution – though the looks of regret mingled with agonized pleasure easily read upon the faces of both participants involved, made him withdraw and leave them to their business. If a crime was committed in that alley, it was only the finalization of a struggle that had begun far before he and his friends became involved.

* * *

**4.**

_"Valjean, you will..."_

He would never reveal it to his beloved. Of the many secrets Marius Pontmercy would be entrusted with in his life, this one he intended to bury in the deepest chambers of his heart. It wasn't even completely certain that he had not dreamed it all, considering how ill he had been that evening. Regretfully, he must admit that certain signs and mannerism, which he had before not considered made more sense when considered in the light of this revelation; this in turn hinted to the truth of his memories. And there had of course been the pitiful little notice in the paper...

No, he had no proof, only supposition and the feverish images of his own abused brain. However, the way these seven words had been said; the long chain of events he later realized connected the main players; all he knew of the law and the spirit versus the letter of a contract; last but not least his own heart, which had known a passionate love beyond all sanity or sense... 

If at first he had disagreed with the circumstanced, and had considered it another black mark against his father-in-law's character, he would later re-evaluate the matter when age and experience had mellowed his prejudices. With time, he would come to feel nothing but compassion towards the unfortunate players in that tragic drama.

The one certainty which remained with him for as long as he recalled the matter, which was years beyond what he would have guessed, was this: Though no court of law would have considered it a valid contract, there were things which lay beyond the purview of the law. And with all his lawyer soul and experience, Marius knew that those seven words were a vow. Further, that when they were spoken in that particular tone – which he would have sworn in court permeated the question as well as the reply – it could not be doubted that they formed the most sacred vow.

_Yes. I will return._

* * *

**5.**

When Monsieur Fauchelevent's housekeeper approached the priest with her worries, he took them seriously. Though he was not a superstitious man, he had seen enough to know that more than men of flesh and blood walked the earth. And this case – an elderly man, plagued by illness and isolated in his home? It might very well attract the foulest of spirits, intent on teasing his soul away from the light of salvation. 

Thus, the priest approached old M Fauchelevent and carefully enquired about the conversation his housekeeper had heard him hold with the empty room. The man showed only surprise and what appeared to be honest confusion about the matter. He was also glad to be led in a prayer, and formed the words more easily than when he had answered the priest's questions. Still, at the housekeeper's request, the priest put up a icon of the Saint Michael to guard the old man in his illness and withdrew.

A few days later, he was called back. Monsieur was growing more ill, she said, and though she refrained from mentioning it, the priest was certain that she thought to have heard further voices.

When he arrived, M Fauchelevent was asleep. Since he'd been informed the man's rest was often uneasy, he waited and took some refreshment in the kitchen to give the old man his peace. While he was drinking a coffee and considering his schedule for the rest of the day, he heard what sounded like clear conversation emit from the sickroom. One of the voices might have been M Fauchelevent; the other was wholly unknown to him. Exchanging a questioning glance with the housekeeper, whom nodded in a nervous way, the priest made certain that he had his book of prayers, rosary and crucifix in easy reach, and strode down to the sick man's room.

He waited outside of the door, and listened. The conversation was an odd one; it consisted not of threats nor tempting promises which would reveal themselves empty and void as soon as any deal was sealed. Nor could he hear anything even nearing doubt in the Lord, nor in his only-born son, and he frowned and listened closer. It almost seemed as if the speakers were debating the state of prisons and prisoners in France... though now, the topic switched without any logic that he could follow, to the matter of a certain tree-pruner and his extended family? 

Having heard enough to be confused, but too little to be enlightened, the priest turned down the handle as silently as he could and then quickly pushed the door open.

The sight that met him was as ordinary as it was unexpected. M Fauchelevent lay in his bed, his hands peacefully crossed atop the covers and his nightcap having slipped down his forehead. His lips might have been moving in the moment the door was opened, or they might have been still; the priest thought first the one, then the other. As he stood looking upon him, the man did nothing but breathe in the slow, even way of the peaceful sleeper. There was none other in the room.

However, when the priest entered and lifted his crucifix, and spoke a prayer to protect and shield this old man, he felt an answer ring throughout his very bones.

And as he turned towards the window, he saw a great flock of birds take flight – grey doves, it must have been, though before his confused eyes the wings seemed to span further than an eagle's breadth, far larger than anything he had ever seen in the city – he knew without a doubt, that this man was protected until the end of his days.

* * *

**(And 1)**

He had been given the position as a foreman, not because he possessed any particular skills in the area of leadership or bead-making. No, his had first been the position of a simple factory worker, and he had earner his current position to three things: his good knowledge of numbers and letters, his willingness to tell off his neighbours when they grew lax at work even if meant some personal strife, and Monsieur Madeleine's generous heart. 

As for the first, he held nothing but scorn for his old schoolteacher for the man had quite literally beaten the arithmetic and alphabet into him. For the second, his neighbours he disdained and made sure to turn into the category of 'former' (neighbours, friends; everything but subordinates) as soon as his new position enabled him. To M Madeleine, however, the man who had raised him from a humble worker to something better, the man who had himself come from simple means and risen to the position of mayor... Yes, to this man, he felt a tender swell of gratitude. Every courtesy and flattering word he spoke to and of him, was offered with honest feeling, even if not always deliver with elegance. 

So when he noticed that the mayor seemed worried, and this had a clear connection to visits from the town Inspector – an odious fellow, the foreman thought, too straight-laced and stuffy by far – he thought to do the mayor a little kindness. His plan was simple. He'd interrupt their talk with some matters not quite as urgent as he could make them seem.

The best intentions, however, can trip and fall over that human weakness of curiosity. What, wondered the foreman, did the Mayor and the Inspector speak of so intently? They would hide themselves away for upwards an hour at time... 

Chess, he had heard some of the women speculate about, chess or some less elegant game. Prayer, said old Mother Blanche, because she the Mayor was a saint and, since the Inspector's hours often kept him away from mass, they would probably pray together. Work, sighed the Inspector's men. The foreman recognized their tired tone; he had used it himself, back when the factory was failing and his foreman had insisted they all set the pace of the most efficient worker and keep the hours of the most conscientious man – work without a break to please a master who could not be pleased made not for happy. 

But M Madeleine seemed nothing but refreshed from prayer, and would lead the workers in a short contemplation each morning. Chess? Perhaps, in the evening, but neither man's character implied that he would shirk his duties for a game; not, it must be said, that the hour of solitude the Mayor and Inspector sometimes had together seemed to steal much time from their work. It was simply that when they did spend a full hour working, their spirited discussions about legalities, justice and fairness could be heard out into his office. At those times, messenger boys would be sent for, the Inspector would come with one stack of paper and leave with a different heap, and often the foreman would find an enquiry from M Madeleine on his desk afterwards. Could they perhaps need another worker in the factory, did he know of any place that a needed a young girl who had lost her parents, a paroled convict trying to stay on the straight path, a vagrant who had committed some minor offence against town regulations but had sworn to better himself...? 

No, the foreman did not think that the two men were involved in either chess, prayer or work, not on days such as these. And perhaps it would have ended there, with idle musings, if it had not been for the second bookshelf installed in the outer offices. It had demanded the moving of almost all furniture, and it had been revealed that a plank hung loose in the wall to the mayor's private office. When an office boy attempted to repair the hole, he only manage to break the plank off. The foreman had called for a carpenter that very day, but he had been engaged already could not make it for another two days. Thus the hole had been temporarily repaired with a scrap of fabric – which the foreman now saw was fluttering loose again. 

He told himself he would merely warn the mayor that he must make some noise to fasten the fabric again; such was his intention, until he knelt down and saw the Mayor and the Inspector engaged in an activity he had never in his wildest dreams ascribed either of them.

Though they were still mostly dressed, having only laid off their outer coats, and though they made hardly any noise (certainly far less than when they argued arrests!) the act they were involved in could not be mistaken. The Inspector, half sitting, half leaning upon the heavy desk... The Mayor, his chair pushed back, kneeling between his legs, only the very top of his head and the one arm he had wrapped around the Inspector's waist visible... This godless act, which he had never imagined M Madeleine to be capable of performing – and perform well, if the way the Inspector turned his head aside and bit violently into his knuckles, while he shuddered like an elm in the storm – was surely the reason for these mysterious meetings; it meant they must do it regularly. 

He should look away, the foreman knew He should speak up, or leave, protest or forget; anything he ought to have done, but what he did. 

And that was stay there, on his knees, and watch them in stunned silence. He watched while the Inspector caught his breath, while the Mayor spoke soft words to him, spied when he was in turn directed backwards into his chair – the same chair he sat in every day, calmly giving orders to the entire factory! – while the feared Inspector went to his knees and revealed the Mayor's shame and took him into his mouth. He saw what amounted almost to a rictus of agony upon the gentle features of M Madeleine, as his head fell back and he gasped for air. 

He would see him bury his face in his hands after the act was finished; grieving, thought the foreman with the clear sight of the fully ignorant. Affected by pleasure and composing himself, thought always the Inspector, with his half-formed knowledge which only blinded him to the truth.

So he watched them, not even noticing the ache in his knees or the way his own shame was stirring slightly; he watched them and he understood nothing. Here was one man wealthy, respected and fair, with another so far below him; yet they would bend and service each other, as if no such difference existed. And when they began to put themselves to order and straightened their waistcoats, he smoothed down the scrap fabric with a trembling hand before he hurried away, confused and overwhelmed beyond all measure. 

He knew not what was going on, nor how it had happened. He did not think he had seen a subordinate prostitute himself before a demanding superior; M Madeleine could have demanded a dozen boys or women fairer than that man, and as uncharitable as town gossip was towards the policeman, it had never named him a sycophant. But what, then, could grow between to men such as them? He did not know, and he tried futilely to forget all that he had seen; it would mean scandal, potential ruin for the factory, the loss of his own wages where this to leak out in town!

But though he could not name it, and though he tried to demean it in his mind, the sight he had seen had so affected him, that he kept their secrets even after ruin came snapping at their heels; of that hour in the office, not a word would ever pass his lips, and whenever he recalled it, their odd blend of lust and pain, the filthy sin touching one he'd thought to be a holy man... He understood it not, but he had caught a tiny glimpse of grace.

/End


End file.
